


reap what you sew

by Mooncactus



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 07:18:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mooncactus/pseuds/Mooncactus
Summary: “Miss Cain,” he said, tilting his head at her pizza-stained attire. “Do you actually know anything about fashion?”“I wear it.”--In a universe where Roarhaven has developed their own television networks - and fan communities who eagerly eat it up - Skulduggery Pleasant finds the newest season of the fashion reality TV show he cohosts a bit more interesting than usual.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neotericbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neotericbitch/gifts).



> this dedicated to neotericbitch, on this particular day, the anniversary of when they saved me from a plague of frogs that tried to take over my VW bug. i owe you my life. (this AU dreamed up by the two of us, and then i could not let it go bc project runway was such a huge part of my childhood. lots of credit to the OG show and NB for coming up with lovely lovely ideas!!)
> 
> Update rate will likely be slow. Please be patient with me THIS IS WHY I JUST TEND TO WRITE MASSIVE ONESHOTS.
> 
> This is still a magic and a skeleton universe, but a very different one! this is the backstory i came up with, in case you just wanna be up to speed with what is still canon and what is not:
> 
> Immediately after Skulduggery’s death, Nefarian Serpine is killed. By the time Skulduggery returned from the dead; the war was already coming to a close. Robbed of his revenge - and now just an ordinary war vet and widower - Skulduggery struggles to find a place for himself. Roarhaven as a fully fledged mage city was established in the mid 20th century, and by the 2020s, has developed its own schools and businesses - as well as social culture, media, internet, and of course: memes.
> 
> Vile does not exist aside from a secret deep in Skulduggery’s heart. He is even lonelier and more aimless than in canon, with no revenge and no Valkyrie Cain in his life.
> 
> And the lonely find refuge in TELEVISION!

_Project Roarhaven_ is a mage television show produced and filmed in Roarhaven, Ireland, a magic community formed in 1890. Headed by designer Ghastly Bespoke, the show focuses on incorporating fashion design with magic disciplines, with weekly themes and restrictions. A panel of judges (currently Bespoke, China Sorrows, and Erskine Ravel) evaluate each weekly challenge, choosing one winner and one loser who is eliminated from the show.

Currently, two seasons have been aired, with a third to premiere in June. Host Skulduggery Pleasant predicts the show will run for “many more” seasons, or until, “one of the designers finally gets tired of sewing and decides to kill us all instead.”

\--

> fyeahprojectroarhaven: NEW SEASON 3 PROMO OUT
> 
> holdmeclosertinynecromancer: yaaasss bitccchhhh!!!
> 
> futuregrandmage: omg fuck i went to school with darkly & his model thats crazy
> 
> sparrowprincely: i really think china and skulduggery are going to get back together
> 
> mrsbespoke: God i really hope this is the season where evryone goes batshit

\--

“Happy first day of shooting,” Ghastly said, and tapped Skulduggery on the skull with his coffee cup. Skulduggery hummed in annoyance.

“Happy indeed,” he said, picking a piece of lint off his suit - black shirt, black suit, black tie.

“You look like you’re attending a funeral,” Ghastly said, wearing a stupendous floral suit. “You can at least fake a smile for the cameras today.”

“I am,” Skulduggery began, slow as molasses, “literally always smiling.”

Ghastly sighed. “Remember when you were excited about this show?”

“Excited was always a bit strong of a word,” Skulduggery says, straightening his jacket. “But the idea of someone setting a sewing machine on fire again did help motivate me to come in.”

“Of course it did.” Ghastly checked his phone, looked back up. “Time for model selection.”

“Joy,” said Skulduggery, and Ghastly aimed a kick at his shin that the skeleton only barely dodged. Skulduggery laughed. “Fine,” he said. “I will try to enjoy the glory of our new life in television today.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Ghastly said, magnanimously, and opened the studio door ahead of them. He stepped up on the runway, ready to introduce himself and spiel to the designers, as Skulduggery stepped off to the side.

In front of Ghastly, twelve models stood on the runway, all in identical shifts, a dozen designers in folding chairs in front of them. Ghastly said hello all of them, thanked them for joining the show, explained a little about what they’d be doing that more. Skulduggery stuck to the shadows, glad to be unnoticed.

While picking models wasn’t exactly thrilling, it gave him a good introduction of the personality of all twelve contestants - twenty four, actually, as the models competed as well for a cash prize and a feature in Sorrows Magazine. Which was a nice little way for China to remind everyone that she really was the one who owned this entire show - entire industry, really. Niceties all done, Ghastly removed an envelope from his pocket - it would produced a different name every time he opened it. He opened it up and announced his first name - one _Hansard Kray._

The next few minutes of selection past smoothly though one competitor - baby faced and still spotty, he must have been the one straight out of school - looked on the verge of happy tears when he selected his model, who put out a fist for a fistbump.

Soon they were down to eight, and Skulduggery took his hat off, took another look at them. Most models all looked the same to him - all nearly the same height, all thin, all lovely. The one on the very very far right hips were a smidge too big, her shoulders a bit too broad - they were all facing away from him, so he couldn’t see her face, but her posture was very very bored.

The next contestant named was picked - a Miss Melancholia St. Clair - and she gathered her long black skirt and rose from her studio chair, heaving a sigh. She was a Necromancer, that much was obvious. Skulduggery found himself already wishing for a swift elimination.

She stood at the lip of the runway, squinting at the remaining models, her wide rimmed hat settled on top of her long blond curls.

“You, I guess,” she said, pointing at she-with-generous-hips.

Ghastly handed her an also magically generated card with the model’s measurements and name on it, and Melancholia returned to her chair, scowling.

The model turned on her heel and walked down the runway in bare feet. “Cheers,” she grumbled, too quiet for any designer to hear, and startled when Skulduggery let out a surprised laugh beside her. Her head whipped around to look at him - dark eyes, dark hair - and then she gave him a tiny wave as she realized who he was before slipping backstage.

Skulduggery looked back at the runway, an American making a slow agonizing choice, and almost smiled.

(Well, he did smile. Again: didn’t really have a choice.)

\--

“Pleasant,” barked their head producer, two weeks later, a truly unfathomably unlikable woman named Marr. “I’ve got a task for you.”

Skulduggery stopped mid step, and then pivoted carefully around to face her, adjusting his cufflinks. He had been told before that this body language came out as “contemptuous” and “rude”. He just reminded whoever was complaining there was a reason everyone used him as reaction gifs.

“I have to consult with the designers,” he said, tilting his head. That was his main job here; and three episodes into the season, he was still trying to remember all the personalities and names, while doling out equal amounts of time to each.

“I can already tell what they’re going to consult you about,” Marr said, capturing her clipboard in her folded arms. “One of the models - Cain, she’s working with St. Clair - is a fucking _nightmare.”_

“How so?”

“She almost refused to wear St Clair’s design last week because she called it “the most heinous fucking thing I’ve ever seen”.”

Melancholia’s designs leaned towards gothic - less so the Hot Topic sense, more of _gothic romance_ with plenty of ‘ironic’ mortal cross designs. Skulduggery also wasn’t a fan, but he didn’t think it was appropriate to say.

“So she can trade her for another model, we did that last season--”

“Except,” Davina said, tone icy, “she’s nearly gotten into a fist fight with Caelan, mocked Hansard’s model, and made Scapegrace cry.”

“So did Ghastly. He said he has allergies.”

Davina glowered at him. “That was only of _this morning._ God knows what she’s done in the last few hours. I’m thinking of just booting her and bringing Crux’s model back, but the other producers -” the eye rolling was audible - “think her drama will be great for views. So. Settle that shit, get back to me.”

“That isn’t even remotely in--” he began, but Marr was already storming off, not listening to a word.

Spectacular.

Skulduggery stepped into the workroom, toeing past camera men and models in various states of dress as they tried on their designer’s garments. He paid them no mind.

“Melancholia,” he said, getting to her station, “where’s your--”

“Break room,” Melancholia said, and hissed as she stabbed herself with a pin. “Hopefully dived out the window. I think she’d actually be more useful as a reanimated corpse.”

“We are known for our usefulness,” Skulduggery said graciously. “If no corpse, I’ll try to secure you an apology, at the very least.” He ignored a frenzied Omen Darkly’s cry for help as he crossed the work room and opened the break room’s door.

Everyone was hard at work fitting their models, so it was completely empty, save for a figure sitting up at the counter, next to the microwave.

It took him a moment to place her - she of the endowed hips and shoulders. He had seen her in a modeling shift, a full length gown, and an avant-garde reinvention of necromancer robes - but it was here, in sweats and a very recently stained t-shirt, that he first actually _seen_ her.

She was also swallowing pizza at an alarming rate.

“Hello,” he said, closing the door behind him, and he heard the truly unique noise of someone choking on an entire pizza slice.

He watched her cough, wondering if he actually remembered how do the heimlich, and then scramble for her soda to wash it down before answering. “Hi.”

“Are you on lunch?”

She shook her head.

“Your fifteen?”

“I mean, if my fifteen is allowed to last an hour.”

“Must be very exciting in here.”

“Better than being fucking stuck with pins every two seconds,” she said, and he almost laughed.

“Don’t like fittings much?”

“Not particularly,” she said, wiping her mouth on her bare arm. “Wait, am I getting one of the legendary Skulduggery Pleasant smackdowns? I thought those were just reserved for rampaging designers.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “Fan of the show?”

“Not really,” she said. “But you’re --” she actually went slightly pink, which surprised him. “I mean, you’re more famous than the entire show put together. War veteran turned TV host. And a walking talking skeleton.”

“The TV thing is the truly spectacular part, I think,” said Skulduggery.

“You do make a mean gif.”

Skulduggery joined her at the counter. “That’s what I’ve always said.”

“What crime against fashion have I committed?” she asked, leaning forward.

“Miss Cain,” he said, tilting his head at her pizza-stained attire. “Do you actually know anything about fashion?”

“I wear it.”

Skulduggery made an amused hum, leaned back. “I’m finding myself understanding why the designers are having trouble with you.”

“The models too,” Valkyrie added immediately. “Can’t forget the ones who keep hiding my shoes.”

“Ghastly has always said that reality TV is truly about the friends you make.”

“Well, then,” Valkyrie responds, gripping onto the edge of the counter so she can kick her bare feet out. “I’m failing spectacularly.”

“You’re supposed to say “I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to win,” and then look smugly into the camera.”

“I mean,” Valkyrie said, “the cash prize will be great. But. Whatever.”

He tilted his head. “So, you don’t care about winning, you don’t like fittings,” Skulduggery said, counting off on his fingers, “you don’t like the models, or the designers. Aside from ordering pizza off using our production budget, is there any actual reason you’re sticking around?”

“Not really,” Valkyrie said, cheerfully. “All other modeling gigs don’t last more than a week. This one could last 4 months.”

“You probably should not risk getting fired and or murdered by your designer, then.”

She put a hand on her heart, looked mock-offended. “I could be _fired?”_

No apology, then. She was, indeed, going to be an absolute nightmare.

But Skulduggery was still waiting for his on-fire sewing machine, so ...

Skulduggery tilted his head. “Go get fitted,” he said. “Maybe bathe yourself with baby wipes first.”

Valkyrie laughed, hopping off the counter. Bizarrely, he was struck by how truly lovely she was - when she was scowling away beneath the ruffled collars Melancholia had put her in on the runway, he had never got to see her dimples.

She strode out the door, and then, a moment later, stuck her head back in.

“You’re a marvel, you know,” she said. “We’ll chat.”

“Sure,” he said, placing his hands in his pockets.

\--

Davina found him after the runway show, looking clearly annoyed by the fact that not only Melancholia had won this week’s challenge, but had been directly praised for Valkyrie’s walk.

“So,” she began, hand on her hip.

“I think we should keep her,” said Skulduggery. “For the ratings,” he added.

Davina narrowed her eyes. “If this blows up in our faces...”

“Oh, I can’t imagine it will,” Skulduggery said smoothly, already picturing the fiery wreckage.

\--

> Futuregrandmage: oh my god i am SCHLIVIN’ FOR THIS MODEL DRAMA FHEGIWJGW
> 
> neotericwitch: i need a gif of satan incarnate model making the stink eye face when she sees what she’ll have to wear asap
> 
> bubbamoonie: can we call her valcaino
> 
> combataccessory: APPROPRIATE
> 
> literallytrash: ok but pleasant is lowkey trying not to laugh hysterically during that bit and im lovin’ it

\--

The next challenge was an interesting one - transformative sleepwear, and for extra challenge, had to be entirely completed that night. By the time four am rolled around, everyone was crabby, to say the least. Ghastly and the other judges had already retired for the night, but Skulduggery - who rarely needed any sort of rest - was very content to help hold a yawning Omen Darkly’s dress form in place as he bemusedly watched the designers break down around them.

The models had arrived an hour before, and Omen’s model - an equally youthful recent graduate named Never, their first non binary model on the show - was complaining up a storm.

“I swear to fucking Christ,” she hissed, sorting Omen’s scrap fabrics as he scratched various sigils on them. “I will kill her. I _will.”_

“Cain?” Skulduggery suggested, and Never blinked in surprise.

“Yeah. You have a history with her too?”

He shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“Apparently, like, half the god damn show has either hated her or dated her. Or _both_. She nearly got my brother killed when they were both in school, she was so fucking _aggro_ all the time, with her big flashy magic and her _oooh look at me I’m an ancients descendent_ bullcrap.”

Skulduggery looked over across the room, where Melancholia was putting a collar on her that forced Valkyrie to tilt her chin all the way up to even wear it. Her expression was murderous.

“Is she really? A descendent, I mean.”

“No!” Never barked, and then paused. “Well, I don’t know. But it just sounds like a ploy for attention."

“What’s your opinion on her, Omen?” Skulduggery asked.

“Who?” Omen said, eyes glassy.

“Well, I hate her,” Never declared, “so of course _you_ hate her.”

“Right,” Omen said, absentmindedly. He had been in the bottom three for two of the three previous episodes - all because he had been gambling on sigils that hadn’t quite worked out the way he had planned. He was putting his all into this transformation - and therefore had barely worked on the actual garment. Skulduggery wasn’t quite supposed to _help_ , even if it was just holding something in place, but the boy was clearly struggling and the camera crew had gone home to catch some sleep anyway.

There was a hiss and a shout from the opposite side of the room, and Skulduggery glanced up. “Probably should go investigate that.”

“ _Pleeeaaase smack her_ ,” Never said, sing song, and then took his place holding the dress form.

As he walked towards the two of them, Melancholia was aggressively, rapidly handsewing one of her signature high collars. Skulduggery wondered if Valkyrie would be cut out of the dress later, or just simply stuck in it like a dog with a cone.  

“So ... the idea is that the wearer would choke in her sleep?” Valkyrie muttered, voice tired and slow.

Melancholia just put up her middle finger and continued sewing. Skulduggery stayed a respectful distance back.

“Fuck!” Melancholia swore, and Skulduggery saw a tiny patch of red appear on the collar. “Shit, fuck, shit!” She ripped the collar off Valkyrie - who actually started coughing - and literally shadow walked out.

Skulduggery glanced off in the direction she went, slightly disappointed he didn’t have eyebrows to raise.

“Well,” he said. “I see you two are handling the stress well.”

“Shut up, no-sleep-needer,” Valkyrie grumbled, rubbing her eyes. “I would literally just prop myself up and sleep against the wall at this point.”

“Well, it’ll be over soon,” he said. “What are you two up to?”

“It’ll go from a nightgown to a evening gown. In case you have to go to a ball in the middle of the night, I guess. I mean, it’s uggo as _fuck_ but it’s an impressive bit of necromancy.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I actually briefly studied necromancy when I was younger.”

Skulduggery stiffened and tried to pass it off as a stretch.

Valkyrie frowned at him. “Not a necromancy fan?”

Skulduggery just studied the wall.

“Me neither,” she continued. “I didn’t know what I was doing, I just wanted to trying something new - and I hated it. Melancholia - she might not living the temple solitude life, but she’s as dedicated as a necromancer as you can get. Drives me up the wall.”

“What _is_ your discipline?” Skulduggery asked, grasping for a subject change.

“Uh,” she said.

“Eloquent.”

“Ssh. It doesn’t have a name.”

“You’re a neoteric?”

“No,” she said. “Well… maybe? I don’t know, the definition is weird. I got into magic … weird.”

“How so?”

She looked longingly at the table instead of answering. “I’m worried if I lie on that I’ll fall asleep.”

“I’ll pinch you awake,” he said, gently. She boosted herself up, curling up like a cat, the skirt of her nightgown hanging off the edge.

Skulduggery grabbed one of the chairs, sat backwards, and scooted close so Valkyrie wouldn’t have to speak too loud.

“My uncle is mortal, but has known about magic for decades. Written about it, even.”

“What’s his name?”

“Gordon Edgley. I don’t know if you’ve read his books, but they’re popular with mortals.”

“I’ve _met_ him, actually. Just briefly, but when Ravel was entertaining more integration with mortals in the 1990s. I’ve read some of his books, too. They’re good. Continue.”

She nodded. “He’s not magic, but he figured out I am. When I was a teen he explained the whole thing - that it ran in our family but skipped some branches or whole generations, but I got the whole she-bang, and if I wanted to, I could pursue it.”

“And you did?”

“Of course I did. But I was a nobody, a teenager all on my own, no legacy family, nothing -- no one wanted to teach me and I decided to hate everyone for it. I didn’t want to commit to anything and my magic got ... unlinear.”

“Hmm,” said Skulduggery. “I’d have thought being at least somewhat apart of the magic community - even if on the outskirts - would have kept you pretty much on the straight narrow.”

“Well,” Valkyrie said, “you’ve been in the thick of it for centuries and you’re a freak too.”

He tilted his head. “Fair. So when are you going to tell me what you can actually do?”

“It’s not very exciting,” she said, leaning her head onto her folded arm. “I can see and manipulate auras, among other things. Thank you, by the way, I think talking about myself is the only thing that could actually keep me awake at this point.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, and found himself surprised by the warmth in his voice. “Then, can you see how people are feeling?”

“Not really. Mostly everyone’s just orange.”

“Unfortunate. Orange is my least favorite color.”

She hesitated, and then shook her head minutely. “Actually--”

“Get up,” Melancholia growled at Valkyrie, suddenly reappearing, and then blinked at Skulduggery like she never noticed he was there at all.

“I’ll get out of your way,” he said, standing and spinning the chair around in one smooth motion.

Valkyrie opened her mouth to protest, but sighed instead. She took a comically big breath as Melancholia shackled her back into her collar, and Skulduggery felt a genuine smile on his nonexistent lips.

\--

Just barely - after Never had tapped the sigil about eight times walking down the runway - Omen’s magic had worked, transforming the sleep set into battle armor. He won the challenge, and Skulduggery watched Melancholia’s expression curdle as Valkyrie stood sleepy but content beside her.

Vaurien Scapegrace, after weeks of putting his model in increasingly hideous garments, was eliminated, and no allergy could explain the amount of tears shed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW, i was not expecting this big of reaction from people!! Thank you so much for all the comments, i'm glad this weird ass crack fic is working for people, lmao.
> 
> ty again to neotericbitch, whom i lifted a couple ideas off for this chapter, just as they lifted a car off of me the day we met
> 
> (+ forgot to mention last chapters, but many of the wonderful project roarhaven fan usernames (c) members of the skeleton committee. <3)

 

 

> omendorkly: im still REELING from last night
> 
> boohoowitch: i know billy-ray is really only on the show to be meme but that outfit?? A Look. i liked it better than basic ass hansard’s winning dress
> 
> combataccessory: i can’t believe we’re almost mid season…
> 
> bubbamoonie: thank fucking GOD the judges finally called out melancholia for just doing the same basic ass shit week after week. if we get aNOTHER fucking crimson peak outfit this week her ass best get eliminated
> 
> literallytrash: but then we’ll lose valcaino!
> 
> bubbamoonie: TRUUUUU RIPPPPP
> 
> temperfreya: I cheered so much when she ripped caelan apart!!
> 
> boohoowitch: fucking SAVAGE I LOVED IT
> 
> temperfreya:  He was so creepy this ep, I’m so glad he got eliminated.
> 
> dregon: I don’t know why everyone like her so much. She’s unprofessional, she shows up late, and she’s a bitch.
> 
> bubbamoonie: U A BITCH DREGON, MEET ME IN THE PIT!!!
> 
> fyeahprojectroarhaven: GUYS DO NOT MAKE ME HAVE TO ACTUALLY MOD THIS CHAT
> 
> literallytrash: does anyone else kinda think skulduggery might be into valcaino?
> 
> bubbamoonie: YES
> 
> combataccessory: yes!!
> 
> temperfreya: actually yeah??
> 
> boohoowitch: MMMMMM YEP I SAW THAT WAIST TOUCH
> 
> sparrowprincely: no :(
> 
> holdmeclosertinynecromancer: oh yeah, you’re still hoping he gets back with china, right?
> 
> sparrowprincely: he will!
> 
> fyeahprojectroarhaven: guys no real person fic in the chat
> 
> fyeahprojectroarhaven: why are y’all LIKE THIS

\--

To celebrate hitting the midway point of the season, the designers, judges, and models had a rooftop party. There were floating lights illuminating the tables full of food (and booze), couches and chairs, even a bit of a dance floor. China was here, which was surprising for her, and they had enjoyed a very lively and not at all terse conversation about how she had bought yet another publishing corporation and was very close to having a monopoly on all of Roarhaven’s written publications. While she and Skulduggery were on - compared to certain other people they had dated - relatively civil terms, this was about as cozy as their conversations got. Ghastly was chatting with Omen, giving some design advice and being disgustingly nice and kindly. And while Erskine never quite fully adjusted to his position as judge, here he was completely in his element, sipping wine and chatting animatedly with the six remaining contestants and their models.

Maybe especially their models.

Skulduggery was mostly trying to align himself as far away from everyone else as possible, which meant he was really just lurking in the corner of the roof like a gargoyle and staring out at the city’s skyline. Six designers left - Hansard Kray, Billy-Ray Sanguine, Omen Darkly, Cadaverous Gant, Melancholia St. Clair, and Militsa Gnosis.

All very talented, all degrees of insufferable. But the main part of the season, and he would have three months of trying to find something to fill his time as the final three designers finished their full fashion lines for Roarhaven’s fashion week. Ghastly tried to convince him every season to pick up knitting; maybe he finally would.

He knew it was a horrible thought to have, but sometimes he really, really missed the war. Difficult to be bored, in war time.

“You’re sulking,” Valkyrie Cain said, standing at his shoulder, and he turned to face her.

“How do you figure that?”

“You’re giving off a general brooding vibe.” She hopped up on the couch next to him, sitting on the back. She was wearing high waisted shorts and strappy heels, which made her legs--

One word into that thought, and he sent it flying off the roof.

“Is that a Bespoke jacket?” he said instead, and she beamed.

“Took me ages to save it up for it.” She snuggled into it. “I love love love it.”

He tilted his head towards her. “I don’t blame you. Everything I wear is designed by Ghastly.”

“Christ, does TV hosting gigs pay _that_ well? I need to get on this.”

He laughed. “We’ve been friends since we were teens. I’ve told him all of his life debts can be repaid in clothes.”

“Are you telling me I save Ghastly’s life I get free clothes?” She hopped off the couch.

“Where are you going?”

“Shoving him off the roof, obviously.”

Skulduggery snorted, and Valkyrie beamed.

He started to say something, started to suggest an alternative for her attempted murder plan, when he noticed that the cameras were pointing right at them. Stranger than that was Davina Marr right behind the camera man.

When she noticed him, she tapped the camera man’s shoulder and the lense suddenly turned.

Bizarre, Skulduggery thought, resting his chin in his hand.

“By the way,” Valkyrie said, speaking out of the corner of her mouth. “When were you going to tell us that Caelan was a serum’d up vampire?”

Skulduggery snapped his head round. “He _what?”_

Valkyrie’s eyes widened, and he realized his voice had come out rougher and angrier than he had intended. “I thought you knew?”

“No-- I had…” he clenched his fists, took an unnecessary breath. “Some of our producers would think that was something appropriately dramatic.”

“He talked about it in his confessional cam interviews, but none of us knew. I only found out when he was threatening to rip my head off when I was arguing with him,” she said, and shrugged.

“I am… extremely sorry about that.”

“I’m not. I get to put “roasted a vampire” on my resume.”

“I have actually roasted a vampire, you know.”

She rolled her eyes at him. She wasn’t wearing any make up - he actually never saw her in any outside of the runway shows. “Not everyone gets a nice war to fill out their punching punchcard.”

“I see what you did there,” he said, “and I’m sorry we all ushered in an era of peace that made ferocious monsters very rare.”

“Apology accepted,” she said, hand on her heart. “Anyway, yes, glad he’s gone for right now, but also--”

“He will not be invited back to the show at any point,” Skulduggery said. “I can promise that.”

“Cheers to that,” Valkyrie said. “I don’t drink, but I think murdering a vampire on TV is an appropriate enough occasion.” Valkyrie took a small flute of champagne off a floating tray.

“Are you actually old enough for that?”

She gasped, offended. “I’m in my _thirties_ , sir. It’s not my fault my genetics and sweet sweet magic skills means I haven’t aged a day past my surge.”

“Forgive me,” he said. “Omen and Never haven’t even hit their surge, it’s made me second guess everyone’s age.”

They both watched as Melancholia strode past them (and very pointedly did not greet either of them.) Her hat’s brim was about twice the width of her head, and her skirt trailed on the ground. She did not seem to be taking her tongue lashing from last week’s evaluation very well.

“How are things with you two?” Skulduggery asked politely.

“We’ve actually reached the point where we communicate entirely silently. It’s a marked improvement. I think we’re really on our way to becoming best friends.”

Skulduggery gave a little laugh. “You have a charming way about you. You’ve truly grown on me, over the past few week. Reminds me of … Grace Kelly, perhaps?”

Valkyrie looked pleased, and Skulduggery tapped his chin, still in thought.

“No, maybe, not Grace Kelly. I think I was thinking ... a foot fungus.”

Valkyrie’s jaw dropped before she snapped it shut, recovering admirably quickly. “Grace Kelly is rather icky.”

Skulduggery swerved on her. “She is _not.”_

“You played yourself there, sir,” she said, holding up the hand not holding her champagne. “I’ve got a great therapist you can talk to about your repressed foot fungus attraction.”

Skulduggery laughed then - truly laughed, so loudly that the other designers looked round. Valkyrie grinned back, cheeks lightly flushed with champagne and dimple clear in her cheek.

Something was fuzzy in Skulduggery’s mind, like he had gone too long without meditating. He had the urge to grab Valkyrie’s shoulder for balance, like he had gotten drunk on the atmosphere, but an ever stronger urge that if he did, he’d have to unlatch his hand from her shoulder like it had burned him.

He was interrupted from this bizarre series of thoughts by Erskine tapping his fork on his wine glass.

“That’ll be the challenge announcement,” Skulduggery said.

“Do you already know what it is?”

He shook his head.

“Then I’m taking a nap,” she said, hopping back onto the couch. He sat beside her, focusing his attention on Erskine. The other designers and models gathered around, still chattering away. Erskine cleared his throat, and the chitchat died away.

“Thank you! Now, I know that Ghastly usually announces your challenges, but this one was a collaboration of ours, and he has graciously allowed me to announce it - as the theme is collaboration itself. There are six designers left, all competing against each other … but they’re competing _with_ someone as well. We have six unique sets of pairs - many of you met for the first time on our first day of shooting, others have been best friends for years--” he nodded at Never and Omen, “and others still don’t quite get along.”

He looked at Valkyrie, who just smiled and shrugged.

“Regardless of the exact relationship, Models are incredibly important to their designers - they are their inspiration, their muses. Today, we’ll be taking that to its logical extreme - each designer will be making an outfit using their own magic and your models clothes, inspired by your model’s unique personality.”

Valkyrie looked down at her outfit - only shorts, a t-shirt, and her beloved jacket - and she and Melancholia wore matching looks of absolute horror.

\--

The contestants were told to enjoy the rest of the party; and then the models were to put their entire outfits in a bag in their apartments at the end of the night be collected. They had taken photos earlier as well to ensure everything would be accounted for. Never was having a very dramatic elegy for his jeans over the fire pit. Sanguine was roasting marshmallows. His model, a quiet German girl named Sabine - didn’t seem too bothered.

Valkyrie was quiet, quieter than her had ever seen her, and Skulduggery had a feeling that she hadn’t been exaggerating when she talked about saving up for her jacket. It had been a long time since he had to worry about finances - centuries, in fact, when he had six other mouths to compete with at the dinner table. He didn’t know what to say, and from what he remembered from that age, there often wasn’t anything _to_ say.

Not for the first time, he found himself with a strangely tender but fierce desire for her to win.

He left the firepit area as Never turned to Omen and made him speak at the jeans impromptu funeral, as the designer stumbled through a promise to remake the trousers into something “special, and uh, different, but not too different … like, like a phoenix … or something.”

Instead, he found Davina.

She nodded at him. “Good challenge, right?”

“It is,” he said. “Was that why you had half your camera crew following Valkyrie?”

She looked at him for a long moment before nodding. “She’s got strong reactions, that’s for sure.”

“Stronger than mine.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, sweetie. There’s a gif of you just tilting your head that has been used eight thousand times since last week.”

“Bless.” His skull tilted upwards. “I wanted to ask you—“

“--About Caelan,” she finished for him. Davina pressed her lips together. “It was not my idea.”

“Who’s was it?”

“I am under NDA, Skulduggery.”

“Even with me?”

She just raised her eyebrows. “You know how much our production team loves the danger and drama.”

“This is a little closer to _danger_ than drama.”

She shrugged. She was wearing a bright red shirt, which flattered her coloring and made her look a little like the devil’s secretary in the firelight. “We follow the drama, Skulduggery. Wherever - and with _whomever_ \- that may be.”

And with that cryptic comment, she took her cameraman to where Gant’s model was sobbing hysterically, her designer looking like he was about ready to take her out of her misery.

\--

The next morning he was down on his way to the workroom - the designers would have three days on this challenge, to really encourage clever incorporations of magic. He pushed the door open, greeted Omen and Never on his way in, aggressively ignored Sanguine. He slipped past them, heading straight to the back of the room where “St Clair” was taped on the wall - finding a short trail of clothes leading him there. A hoodie. A t-shirt. A pair of leggings. He almost considered picking them up as he went, until he spotted a black bra and wisely decided he should probably just leave them be.

At the end of the trail was Melancholia - with the heaviest eye bags he had ever seen on any living being. She was holding up a pinned t-shirt to Valkyrie, who stood boredly in front of her, posture poor.

Wearing nothing but her underwear.

Before he quite realized it, Skulduggery had left the room, found himself with back flush to the other side of the work room’s door. His head was spinning and he felt vaguely weak kneed.

 _What the fuck_ , he thought, frozen to the spot.

What had happened? He was there, he had -- had panicked, or _something,_ and rushed out. For a moment he was terrified he had accidentally shadow walked out - and that was something he hadn’t done in centuries.

But _why?_

Models had to be fitted.

Models had to take off their clothes to be fitted.

He knew this.

He saw this _daily._

So why was Valkyrie Cain wearing only boyshorts burned into the retinas he did not have?

_Because you’re attracted to her, moron._

He clutched his skull with both hands and resisted the urge to smash it against the wall. Obviously. Of course. That why he was being so strange at the party last night, why he constantly sought her out in every room, why making her laugh felt like a personal victory.

_There was only one thing to do for now._

He picked up his phone, called Ghastly. “I’ll have to call out for the rest of this week,” he said, smoothly, and hung up before Ghastly could do anything besides choke out a surprised “what?”

_Run like a coward._

_\--_

By the time he had reached his apartment, he had already rationalized it into a passing crush. He had managed to vault over his Grace Kelly infatuation without ever meeting her. This too shall pass. He would take this week off, get his priorities back in line, and return to the show with no one the wiser.

The last woman he had gotten close to was Abyssinia, and that had only barely not ended in an apocalypse style disaster, mostly thanks to her unfortunate for her and fortunate for him’s death in the war’s last days.

Ghastly called him again, demanding a proper explanation.

“I’m taking a sick week,” Skulduggery answered.

“You’re a _skeleton._ ”

“A mental health week, then. I haven’t taken one day off since this show started. Let me have it.”

Ghastly exhaled. “Fine. I already called in a replacement. Just get your bony ass back here by the next challenge.”

“Roger that,” said Skulduggery.

So for the next few days, he did not think about Valkyrie Cain. (Or didn’t think of her in anything other than the most clinical, organized thoughts he could.)

He thought about his wife, and China, and Abyssinia, and decided he could just sort his not strictly friendly feelings for Valkyrie into neat categories of _grief_ and _the unfortunate fact his sex drive did not disappear with the organs that made it easiest to sate._ He cleaned and organized his apartment, called up friends, did things that he vaguely felt people who actually attended therapy mentioned doing. By the morning of the episode premiere, he was determined that he had starved off this little ill advised crush entirely, that it was nothing more than a momentary lapse in judgment.

He watched the episode live alongside the rest of Roarhaven at the end of the week. Unlike mortal television, magic cameras and editing allowed TV to air just a few hours after it was filmed.

His absence was smoothly covered by an announcement by Ghastly. Valkyrie was not included in the reaction shot, which _did not matter at all,_ of course.

The real purpose of the announcement was to introduce his temporary replacement, who would be--

“Oh, come on,” Skulduggery groaned aloud, as Solomon Wreath stepped out in all black.

The designers clapped - even the pricklier than usual Melancholia - as the famous necromancy designer stepped into the room. He was one of the biggest labels in the magic fashion industry - and also absolutely insufferable. Skulduggery loathed him.

(Ghastly had once suggested it was because Wreath reminded him too much of himself, and he had refused to speak to him for an entire week. While filming the show. It was actually impressive.)

Wreath was charming, encouraging. (Slimy and manipulative.) He put Omen at ease, comforted Never over her murdered jeans, even bantered with the infamously bizarre and unlikable Billy-Ray Sanguine.

Melancholia was last, probably because Melancholia cursed out anyone who got too close to her work station. Her blond curls were limp, her usual regalia had been changed to just a black maxi skirt and a mage band hoodie. Skulduggery was looking forward to the two women - who already pretty much hated everyone - having absolutely tolerance for Solomon Wreath’s bullshit.

He stepped into the work area quietly - Melancholia was too busy in her sewing ferver to even notice. She had turned Valkyrie’s beloved jacket into a skirt, and was making a necromancy jacket/cloak/thing (her magic was struggling to even keep its shape in her exhaustion) to go with it. While the workmanship and general tailoring style were recognizable, nothing else about it was - it was completely unique to the rest of Melancholia’s work.

This was the first thing Wreath said. The next was that it was her best work.

The episode cut to Melancholia’s confessional cam, her hoodie up, still dead exhausted. “I didn’t know if I should have been offended or complimented. But I also hadn’t sleep in three days. So.”

Back in the workroom, Melancholia just blinked.

“You should add zippers, though,” Wreath said. “I can’t imagine you wear anything without,” he said, addressing Valkyrie.

The camera cut to her raising her eyebrows, dressed back in the hoodie and leggings he had found abandoned before he had bolted from the work room. And now all he could think of were beneath that were the perfect planes of her back, those too large hips, and _fuck._

“You’re right,” Melancholia mumbled, and then shadow-walked off, presumably to the supply room.

Wreath turned to Valkyrie. “Pleasure to meet you,” he said.

“I’m sure,” she said, holding out her hand.

He kissed it. “Genuinely,” he said, and Skulduggery found himself desperately wanting to throw something at the TV.

_Fuck._

The show then cut to a working montage, edited to snappy music. Bits of dialogue cut in - “Darlin’, it’s not my fault you don’t _have_ a personality,” from Billy-Ray to his model, “Oh man, I actually really dig this--” to Never to Omen, and then cutting in mid sentence, “--like you tremendously,” from Wreath to Valkyrie, who laughed and went slightly pink.

Skulduggery leaned all the way back on his couch and crossed his arms.

The hair and makeup montage flied by - Valkyrie was shown fleetingly, her long dark hair being pulled back into a high ponytail - and the runway portion began. It had been a long, long time since Skulduggery had watched a full episode, and he found himself genuinely interested in in hearing what everyone had to said about their model inspired piece.

Valkyrie walked last - she had, everyone agreed, the best walk of anyone on the show. Her leather jacket was now aabove the knee skirt, her hands slipped into the pockets. The necromancy element had a hood, no sleeves, and trailed behind her - both functional and stylish, and seemed to react with every step she took. A very clever piece of magic.

Because only six were left, all six designers and models stayed on stage - no one got an automatic “safe” score - everyone was either in bottom or top three.

Wreath was the guest judge, and started each round of questioning by addressing the model on what they thought.

When Valkyrie was asked, everyone on the stage seemed to brace themselves for a barrage of insults.

Instead: “I actually really like it. I’m pissed I can’t wear it out after the challenge is over.”

Melancholia actually gawked at her.

“That’s excellent,” Wreath said, smiling, and then directed his questions to a still baffled Melancholia.

“I see there’s still a high collar. Was that your way of nodding to your other work?”

Melancholia shook her head. “Actually,” she said, picking up the shadow-fabric around Valkyrie’s neck that winded back to become the hood. “The thought was it would protect her neck from vampires.”

Valkyrie turned over to look at Melancholia and gave her a smile. A moment later, Melancholia gave her a tiny smile back.

The top three were Hansard, Omen, and Melancholia - and Melancholia won her second challenge, for “sheer uniqueness and willingness to do something completely outside of your comfort zone.”

The bottom three were Militsa, Gant, and Billy-Ray - the former two who just produced mediocre work. The latter produced something that his model flatly described as, “the worst thing I have ever had to look at, let alone wear.”

Needless to say, he went home. Skulduggery numbly listened to his voiceover talking about how he was a visionary and people didn’t appreciate true Texan fashion here in “boring ass Ireland”.

Five designers left.

Only two weeks until the three month hiatus for creating their fashion week lines.

Skulduggery could survive two weeks.

\--

He returned to the studio the next filming day like nothing had happened. The producers and camera team warmly welcomed him back - it seemed everyone bought whatever Ghastly had come up with - and he rehearsed in his head how perfectly normal and pleasant and friendly and very very platonic he was going to be to Valkyrie.

Even if she was changing. Because he was an adult. Who worked in _fashion._ Who had had a _baby._ He was not going to be _weird about this._

“Welcome back,” Davina said, clapping a hand on his shoulder and knocking him out of repeating this new mantra.

“Thank you,” he said, smoothly. “I see nothing has gone horribly awry since I left.”

“Don’t speak so soon,” Davina said, voice curt. “Gant’s model has apparently gone missing. But Cain has been apparently outright _easy to work with_ all day and has managed to make it--” she actually stopped to check her smartwatch, “two hours so far without fighting anyone, so I will actually count that as a miracle. We got rid of Calean, she and Melancholia won the last challenge, she got on like a house on fire with Wreath -- maybe she’s turned a new leaf.”

“Hmm,” said Skulduggery.

“Don’t _hmmm_ me,” Davina said, narrowing her eyes. “If the world was filled with people like you and Cain--”

“Then why would anyone bother watching reality television?”

She opened her mouth as if to fight him, but ultimately just pointed at him, nodded in agreement, and walked off. Skulduggery shrugged.

In the usual workstation was a calm, far more awake looking Melancholia, and Valkyrie, facing away from him and sitting in an actual chair. She was quiet, just reading a book while Melancholia sketched away, and --

Skulduggery came up to the table. _Light_ , he thought, _light and casual and friendly_. “Are you actually making good use of your free time? What happened to Angry Birds?”

Valkyrie Cain looked up.

Except it was not Valkyrie Cain.

Oh, sure, it looked like Valkyrie Cain - had her face, her hair, her boots. But she was wearing something that verged on _business casual_ , and nothing about her expression was correct.

“I left my phone at home,” she said, with a little shrug that was almost right, and Skulduggery just _stared_ , baffled.

He spent the rest of his consultations pondering this mystery. She must have been a reflection - a bizarrely functional one, if not one sorcerer had picked up on it. ( _Though_ , he thought, _to be fair, everyone had been saying what a nice change her sudden flip to staying-in-her-lane was, and probably wouldn’t have commented if a kindly robot had come to work in her stead.)_ But where was Valkyrie? It couldn’t be related to Gant’s missing model (the designer was bizarrely calm about this), as she had gone off the grid sometime shortly after filming the runway evaluations, and Valkyrie had come into record her very candid confessional cam work days after.

He could be perfectly pleasant and platonic with the imposter, which was an excellent thing, but he couldn’t help but wonder, increasingly, if Valkyrie Cain was quite alright.

And the extent of what he would do to make sure she was.

The designers had left to buy fabric, and most of the models had gone home, but not-Valkyrie was still there, reading away, like she hadn’t noticed anyone had left. Skulduggery approached her slowly, aware that there was still one lone camera woman left - like she had decided she wouldn’t leave until not-Valkyrie (or Skulduggery himself) did.

He chose his words carefully. “You seemed to have recovered well from the trauma of losing your jacket.”

“It was just a jacket,” she said, glancing up. “Even if it was a really really really cool one.”

Well, _that_ sounded like Valkyrie.

“I was worried,” he said, tone joking. He kept it flippant as he continued. “Still worried, actually. Didn’t know where you’d be. ... Mentally.”

Not-Valkyrie looked up at him, and then closed her book. “And you haven’t figured that out yet?”

“I’m getting there.”

“Well,” she said, her eyes half lidded, mouth almost quirking into a smile. “Physically, I’m here, doing my job. _Mentally_ , I’m at home. On my phone. Playing Angry Birds.”

Skulduggery nodded his head once. “Horrifically depressed over the jacket?”

“It was just a jacket,” she repeated, looking him dead in his eye sockets. “I’m sure I’ll be here both physically and mentally tomorrow.”

“That’s good to hear,” Skulduggery said, softly, and Not-Valkyrie lowered her head back down - and winked.

\--

As promised, Valkyrie Cain arrived late the next morning, bagel in her mouth and insult mumbled at Never (alongside a sizable chunk of cream cheese) on her lips. She was dressed a little less casually than usual - nothing too fancy, but closer to what she wore to the rooftop party.

(She looked resplendent. He decided with his imaginary therapist that there was really no point of pretending she was anything but, even as he kept things professional and friendly.)

He caught her eye, and then walked into the break room entrance - a strict no camera crew zone. She followed, slipping in through the door right after him.

“I didn’t mention it yesterday,” Valkyrie started, siddling up next to him, “but it is actually very nice to have you back.”

“Same to you,” he said, tilting his head.

She blinked. Opened her mouth. Frowned, raised her hands in confusion, shook her head at him. “How the-- she _said_ you knew, I just-- how the _fuck?”_

“Little things,” he said. “The way you walk. Your expressions. The fact you didn’t try to actually physically or verbally assault anyone.”

“I was going for ‘having a good day, or possibly heavily medicated’.”

“It worked,” he said, “and I wasn’t going to blow your cover, as long as you weren’t being murdered by Caelan in some dark cave.”

Valkyrie made an offended noise. “I would be the one doing the murdering, _thanks._ ”

“So why send a replacement?” he asked, hoping his tone sounded casual.

“Can’t I make like Ferris Bueller for once? And before you berate me about this being my very important job I will remind you that you played hooky for a _week_.”

“I did not play hooky,” Skulduggery said.

“Oh, what? You had a skeleton head cold?”

“Skull cold would have probably been a more effective joke.”

“First off, do not avoid the question. Secondly no, it would not have, and you should be way better at skeleton jokes than you are.”

He leaned back. “Fine. I needed a break from non skeletons. Now you tell me how you have a freakishly lifelike reflection.”

“She lives my mortal life for me,” Valkyrie said. “My uncle didn’t like it, but I did it. I take over for her sometimes for family dinners, but she usually doesn’t have any reason to be me. I mean, Valkyrie-me.”

She was even wearing a necklace today - a long pendant that dangled around the V cut of her green top.

“They can’t tell the difference?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. She looked up at him. “You’re the first, actually.”

He laughed. “That’s shocking, when she’s …”

“Not a bitch? People don’t question the small miracles.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I am genuinely glad you’re back,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets.

“Again: same to you,” she said, and smiled at him so warmly he found himself making an excuse for a speedy exit.

\--

There was a camera pointed right at the door as he opened it, which was bizarre. Davina stepped out from a corner, making a beeline towards him. They walked together, away from the workroom and down a long hallway. “Well, Gant just came in with his own replacement model, which is a nightmare because she’s at least half a foot too short and also _no_ one seems to have any idea who she is.”

“More drama for you eat up.”

“No, Skulduggery,” Davina said, leveling her mismatched eyes at him. “I like the drama of people having mental breakdowns or arguments or whispered lovey dovey conversations. That stuff I know how to handle. That’s the stuff that sells. It’s what I make my entire business in. Bringing in mystery women off the street, though, and not having enough time to do anything about it, though? That makes me very, very, very cranky.”

“And am I supposed to do anything about it?”

She actually laughed aloud. “That’s very kind of you, sweetheart, but no. No. I just want to let you clearly understand my work ethic.”

“Unfortunately for me, Davina, I am already _incredibly_ familiar with it. Besides, if Gant is the one who picked her, her height won’t be a problem--”

They had reached the end of the hallway, and in the corner where they recorded confessional interviews sat a woman, prepping for her first video interview.

She heard their footsteps and turned towards them, tossing her silver hair over a shoulder.

“Hello, Skulduggery,” Abyssinia chirped, and Skulduggery froze.

 _Maybe,_ he thought, staring at his two hundred years dead ex, _this TV show is actually my personal hell_.

\-- 

 

> irishsubway: Anyone have a list of every time Skulduggery and Valkyrie have some kind of moment? With timestamps.
> 
> omendorkly: irishsubway bout to drop the hottest project roarhaven shipping amv
> 
> irishsubway: Something like that. :)
> 
> literallytrash: I literally have a file with every single interaction they’ve had, subway, I got you.
> 
> irishsubway: ty sweetie


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE WE ARE finally ty for your patience. next week is SDCC so uh don't get your hopes up for a fast update, rip

He spun on his heel, grabbed Davina by the arm, and immediately marched her out of the hall before Abyssinia said another word. She had to half run alongside him to keep up with his strides.

“Get her off the show.”

Davina blinked her mismatched eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Off. Fire her. She’s 5’1.”

“Unless,” Davina said, severely, glaring up at him in her three inch pumps that still put her a head below him, “you can find Gant’s missing model by the time of the runway show tomorrow night, she’s staying.”

He started to speak, but she held a hand up.

“I don’t like it either, but unless you find an alternative that isn’t murder, we’re both going to have to deal with her and just pray Gant’s ugly old lady clothes get him eliminated sooner rather than later.”

Skulduggery let her go, shoulders drooping. “I don’t want her speaking to me.”

“For that, you’re on your own, sweetheart,” she said, and pushed past him, into the work room. He hesitated, not yet following her. He didn’t think he was capable of any mentoring. Especially when he was deeply considering the _murder_ option.

Unfortunately for him, the only other way out of the hallway was where he came from - where Abyssinia still sat, having apparently delayed her interview to wait for him.

“No,” he said, as soon as she opened her mouth.

She pouted. “Is that how you really would greet me? After our romance was cut short, all those years ago?”

“It was never much of a romance,” he said, glowering at the camera crew, who were suddenly _very_ interested in this conversation. “You found a widower whose murderous revenge plans were cut short by friends who were avenging _him._ You thought I was an easy target. I am no longer that man.”

“Must have been hard,” she said, voice sweet, “to have to mourn a lover twice in the same century. We never actually broke up, you know.”

“Because you didn’t actually listen to me attempting to.” He sighed, ran a hand through hair that no longer existed, a long forgotten stress instinct. “What are you _doing_ here, and why on earth are you alive?”

“I’ve risen again.” Abyssinia paused, like she wasn’t sure if he got the reference. “Like _Jesus_.”

“Stupendous. How?”

“I’m talented like that,” she said, giving a little shrug. “Let’s not question life’s miracles. My dear friend Gant--”

“--who was born a century after your death, which is more than a little suspicious ...”

“--needed my help when his cute little model friend went tragically missing, and, ta-dah! Here I am. I _swear_ I didn’t know you were here, my love,” she said, with big puppy eyes.

“Right. And you’ve decided to join an industry that was completely different when you were last alive on a media that did not remotely exist when you were alive to help out a man who was not born when you were alive.”

“It seemed like fun,” Abyssinia said, and beamed. “Isn’t it so funny, to see everyone act so civilized? China giving her opinion on silly little outfits. Ghastly with his horrific face plastered around town. You,” she continued, lowering her voice to a whisper only Skulduggery would hear, “acting like you hadn’t realized your humanity was a ruse and were about to embrace necromancy before my tragic death--”

“If you think what was relevant two hundred years ago is of any importance now, Abyssinia, you will not last very long in this industry.” He walked past her - ignoring the ankle that snaked out to try and ensnare his - and slammed the door shut behind him.

\--

He was hiding out on the roof’s designated smoking area. They were abundant in Roarhaven, a mortal trend that caught on in the 60s and probably really shouldn’t have. Skulduggery clasped his hands together on the roof’s railing, resting his skull on his forearms, and exhaled slowly. He sat there for ten, twenty minutes, pseudo meditating, his head aching. Just as he had the thought -- _Davina is going to drag me back in any minute_ \-- he heard the sound of heels hitting the ground. He groaned, looked up, body already tensing.

Valkyrie Cain raised an eyebrow at him. She was wearing extravagant strappy heels that went up her calves - four inches and assumedly difficult to remove - combined with PJ shorts and a crop top yellow t-shirt with a unicycling frog on it. A rather typical mid-fitting outfit.

“Are you taking a skeleton smoke break? There’s a Van Gogh painting of that.” She gasped. “Oh my god, is that secretly you?”

“I am neither the inspiration,” he said, adjusting his position so his elbows were on the rail and he was leaning forward. “Nor a smoker. But I can offer a light--” he snapped his fingers.

“Oh, no,” Valkyrie said. “My career is literally entirely based on my body. Not happening.”

He turned his head. “Wise. I couldn’t stand the smell when I was alive. Can’t smell anything at all anymore.”

“Oh, RIP,” Valkyrie said, sidling up next to him. “I mean, not for smelling cigarettes, that’s a blessing, but _pizza._ ”

“You do eat a lot of pizza for someone whose body is their career.”

“I work out a lot.”

“Huh,” he said. “I haven’t had time for it since starting the show. As you can tell by the excessive weight gain. Are you, in fact, physically fighting people in your free time?”

Valkyrie snorted. “I wish. Just a hour or two work out every day. Crossfit, rock climbing. I run with my dog around the park in the morning and evening. Sometimes I wish I could do more--” she flexed her arm, toned but still model thin -- “but, you know.”

“So when you retire you’re going to get super buff?”

“And covered in tattoos.” He laughed, and she shook her head. “Dead serious. I have a plan.”

“Excited to see it. So,” he said, slowly. “What host-mentor-consultant task am I being approached for?”

Valkyrie looked insulted. “We _are_ friends, you know.”

“We are?” he said, and she just scowled. “Not intended as an insult. Genuine question.”

“Yes, moron.” She joined him on the rail, cupped her chin in her hands. “We are.”

“And I’m not getting a say in that?” he said, hearing the smile in his own voice.

“Nope. By the by, I am, in fact, hiding from Melancholia. Stephanie -- my reflection -- was probably more harm than good because now everyone thinks I’m more of a psycho bitch than usual. Oh, and Gant and his new model are freaks and keep calling me a degenerate so _that’s_ a fistfight waiting to happen.”

“That’s a bit much, coming from her,” he muttered, and Valkyrie frowned.

“What about you?” she said, turning her head so she could meet his eye sockets. “Are you okay?”

“Headache,” he said, gesturing a hand towards his skull.

“You still get headaches without a brain?”

“I get the memories of them. And I can’t exactly take a leaf for the pain.”

Valkyrie furrowed her brow, sympathetic. “All the disadvantages of a fleshbag body and none of the advantages.” She blinked. “Unless you _do_ have the advantages.”

“People have certainly tried.”

“Can I?”

His turned to her in shock, and she just stared back at him until her face colored. “Oh my God, I’m -- I meant -- that wasn’t meant as a come on, I just -- uh, the headache, I might---” she put her hand out, wiggled her fingers.

Skulduggery heard himself swallow, and sped straight into the most disjointed sentence he had uttered in centuries. “No, that was -- it was my fault -- I wasn’t meaning to -- that was inappropriate reaction, I-- if you’d like, to--”

Grateful for something to do aside from sputter at each other, Valkyrie stepped forward, putting her hand out so her palm hovered just a few centimeters from his temple.

“How’s that?” she asked, voice soft.

“I don’t feel anything.”

“Hmm,” she hummed, moving the muscles in her cheek. “That?”

He felt a feather lightness, fingertips gently pressing, but her hand still wasn’t touching his skull.

“Were you going for tickling?”

“No,” she said, a tiny smile breaking through her concentration. “Hold on.” And then there it was - a pressing coolness, pleasant but shivery all at once - like he and Ghastly breaking eggs on each other's heads as boys.

A few seconds later, and his headache was gone. “I didn’t know you were a healer.”

“I’m not. It’s probably closer to… pressure points, I guess. Your aura is…” she trailed off. “Receptive. It’s different.”

“A less repulsive orange?”

“It’s red, actually.”

“Oh, even better.”

Valkyrie smiled, moved her hand down until it was pointing at his chest. He wasn’t sure what she was doing until he felt where his left armpit used to be erupt with sensation and he burst out laughing involuntarily.

“ _That_ was tickling. Wow. You are very much ticklish.”

He recovered, wiggling away from her. “A secret I had been managing to keep _very_ well for three hundred years.”

She grinned. “Any other aches and pains?”

His chest was absolutely aching with the urge to lean forward and kiss her, but he had grown used to ignoring it. “Not that I can think of.”

With a lingering reluctance she dropped her hand. “I’m assuming it’s not from dehydration or sinuses,” she said, “so what stressed you out enough to cause your impossible skeleton headache?”

He hesitated, stared out at the Roarhaven skyline for a long while. “Gant’s freak model is my … for a lack of better term, ex-girlfriend.”

“Oh.” She said. She winced. “Ohhhh God, _and_ China too.”

“They were friends.”

“Christ.”

He drummed his fingers on the rail. “We didn’t date very long. Abyssinia and I didn’t… get along very well.”

“Yeah?”

“She got murdered while the truce was being figured out. I didn’t do very much to stop it.”

Valkyrie blew out her cheeks. “Woof. Who killed her?”

“Serafina.”

“Only one name?”

“Like Mevolent, her husband. Apparently they were going for a Madonna/Beyonce thing.”

“Since _when_ did Mevolent have a wife?”

“Since I am telling you, right now. Pay attention.”

Valkyrie rolled her eyes, but let him continue.

“Serafina hated Abyssinia, didn’t trust her an inch, and when her husband disappeared she blamed her and murdered Abyssinia, two hundred fifty years ago. And now she’s been unmurdered, apparently. Additionally, she seems to think the fact that she just happened to die when we were still together means we never actually broke up.”

Valkyrie’s expression soured. “That’s bullshit.”

He shrugged. “I would call her a disgusting manipulative toad, but that violates my contract--” he brought out the air quotes, “by showing any “ _extreme_ positive or negative bias towards a contestant”.”

“You’d get fired if you openly dislike a contestant too much?”

“Or like them,” he said, softly, looking at her, and then cleared his throat. “It is what it is.”

“Well,” Valkyrie said. “ _I_ could call her a toad. She’s the only person competing I haven’t insulted yet. It’s a right of passage.”

“You’ve insulted Omen? Who takes spiders safely outside and compliments everyone else’s design every week? Maybe you _are_ a monstrous volcanic nightmare model.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Valkyrie said, flapping a hand. “ _Valcaino_ insults add character. It doesn’t matter whether I did or not. Everyone on this show hated me from the first week.”

“I didn’t,” he said without thinking, and then wanted to kick himself.

“That’s because you have taste,” she said, tilting her head up arrogantly, and then she just sighed. “This industry doesn’t want anything to do with me. I don’t belong here.”

“You do,” Skulduggery said, firmly. “You’ve got a good walk and…”

She looked at him, expression hopeful.

“... And you’re acceptable, facewise.”

She scowled. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, cheerfully.

“That doesn’t mean everyone on this show doesn’t wish me dead.”

“I mean,” Skulduggery said, “I am obligated to point out that people would probably wish you dead in most industries in Roarhaven. Except prowrestling, maybe.”

“ _Do_ we have prowrestling?”

“We should. That’s where you’ll get your muscles and tattoos.”

Valkyrie studied his tie. “Do _you_ like doing this?”

“It gives me something to do and Ghastly is passionate about it.”

“But do you actually like being on the show?”

He sighed. “It’s nice to mentor people. And make scathing remarks.”

“Which you could do easily outside the fashion industry-slash-television.”

“Off the record,” Skulduggery said, tapping the rail and looking away from her, “I spend every season hoping that everything is going to just spectacularly self destruct.”

Valkyrie leaned in, pressed against his arm. “Fans literally nicknamed me for my explosions,” she said. “I could do that.”

He laughed. “I’ve got a five season contract. I’m not getting out any time soon.”

“Would you?” she said, softly. “If you weren’t contracted could just walk out and leave it behind, would you do it?”

Skulduggery shrugged. “I don’t exactly have anything better to do. And it’s not like it makes me miserable.” He remembered Abyssinia, winced. “Well, not yet, anyway. But if it ever does … well, my motto has always been “if you hate something, set it on fire”.”

“Sounds a lot like “if you love something, let it go”.”

“That one has always been harder for me,” he said, looking down at their still touching arms. “Anyway. You shouldn’t let it get you down.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Wait, did you manage to mentor me even when I told you I was just here to be your friend?”

“It’s a curse. A not-too-positively-biased curse.”

She grinned. “Can I get a not-too-positively-biased hug?”

“Solely for morale,” he said, solemnly, and then stepped toward her. In her heels, they were precisely the same height. He gave her a light hug, so she wouldn’t be crushed by all his bony angles. She surprised him by tightening it and pressing her head into his shoulder. He swallowed unnecessarily again, feeling her breasts against his ribcage and her substantial hip pressing into his pelvis. _Mentor thoughts only,_  he reminded himself.

He wanted to stay like this forever.

He needed to stop immediately.

(She was not wearing a bra.)

“That’s your mandated thirty second comfort,” he said, voice coming out incriminatingly rough. He cleared it, releasing her. She cleared her throat too, adjusted her top.

“Guess I have get back to work before Melancholia burns the studio down ... Last call for me intentionally prompting that.”

He adjusted his own suit jacket. “I’m good, thank you.”

“Thank you for the career advice.”

“Any time.”

She left by the stairwell entrance by the elevator and he watched her wave before she closed the door behind her.

He saw movement in the corner of his vision, and saw two man camera team on the opposite end of the roof he hadn’t noticed earlier scrambling down to follow her.

\--

 

> holdmeclosertinynecromancer: waiting for this weeks episode is killing meeeeee
> 
> mrsbespoke: ghastly lookin FINE on never’s instagram story
> 
> itslassiewitch: speaking OF did anyone see valcaino and skug snuggling up and chatting
> 
> combataccessory: noooo?????
> 
> bubbamoonie: they’re going to red lobster with andrae and tim
> 
> sparrowprincely: you guys should really stop talking about this ://// its bad to ship real people and valkyrie is like. 35. shes like a kid
> 
> bubbamoonie: i have had to listen to your BITCH ASS CONSPIRASIZE ABOUT CHINA AND SKULDUGGERY FOR YEARS DONT TRY ME
> 
> fyeahroarhaven: Y’all if you don’t stop fighting I will GET OUT THE BAN HAMMER

\--

Skulduggery emerged from his meditation the following morning with very very unmentor like thoughts. He shook off the ghost of the dream -- her chest pressed against his ribcage, him showing exactly how deep his positive bias was -- and groaned. When did he turn into a horny teenage boy?

He quickly scrubbed down in his kitchen sink - his equivalent of a five minute shower. His apartment had come with (useless) appliances and a fantastic view - Ravel’s gift for his help in establishing Roarhaven. It contained an unused fridge, an oven, a bathroom. His bedroom was essentially a walk in closet, no bed. He dressed for the day mechanically, left his apartment, drove himself to work, keeping all thoughts of Valkyrie Cain at bay. (Which would only work, he had now realized, until the next time he saw her.)

Which at least wouldn’t be for a long while. The runway show would be at night, so that meant no Valkyrie - and no Abyssinia - until the late afternoon. He chatted with Militsa, who was, bar any last second twist, absolutely getting eliminated tonight, and Omen, who was doing much better with his finicky sigils. Gant just glared at him. Fair enough, he thought, and moved on to Melancholia, who was in her full _I am working and have probably not slept in several days_ attack mode.

Overall, an average day. He tapped out before Abyssinia came in, heading upstairs to the boring office with all its boring office people. He was chatting with the social media manager (“legitimately, though, if I make a post that mentions both you and--”) when Davina rounded the corner, already barking out a question.

“Have you seen Cain?” Davina asked.

“Not since yesterday.”

“When was the last time she texted you?”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “Never. I don’t even have her number.”

Davina dragged her hands down her face, groaned. Ghastly burst in, looked harried.

“Just got off the phone today with Valkyrie. Said she’s not coming in.”

“Is she alright?” Skulduggery said, voice low and flat.

Ghastly stared at him. “She’s perfectly fine. She just apparently has no interest in _working_ today.”

“Did you tell her she -- _and_ Melancholia -- will get eliminated today if she doesn’t show?” Davina asked.

“I did. She said does not care.”

Skulduggery stared at both of them, and then swore under his breath.

_If you hate something, set it on fire._

_Thanks for the career advice._

“I’m gonna fucking kill her,” Davina muttered, and then took out her phone. “I’ll call every model we’ve ever had. Though none of them are her height. Jesus shit.”

“Thank you,” Ghastly said, and closed the door behind her. “What do you know?” He said, eyes narrowing.

Skulduggery exhaled. “I may have… accidentally encouraged Miss Cain to quit the show.”

Ghastly tented his hands and took a deep mediating breath before saying anything.

“Are you _serious,_ Skulduggery?”

“I had no idea Miss Cain disliked this job--”

“You’re not fooling me with the _Miss Cain_ thing,” Ghastly said, rubbing his temples. “Look, I was fine with looking the other way with this flirtation between you two, but this is too far--”

“There is no flirtation,” Skulduggery said, voice hard.

Ghastly gave him a look.

“Not … on her side, anyway,” he said, looking away. “Look. I swear, I didn’t think she would … I can talk to her, I can fix it--

“It’s a less than an hour til the runway show, Skulduggery. If we can get an appropriate model in here in time, it’ll be a miracle. She and Melancholia are going to be off the show.”

Skulduggery studied the floor, thinking. His head snapped up, suddenly. “I have an idea. Tell Davina to stop calling.”

“I don’t--”

“Trust me,” Skulduggery said, already stepping out the door. “She’ll like ths.”

\--

He walked toward the workroom, ignoring Abyssinia standing stark naked and clearly trying to get his attention. Straight to the back room, where Melancholia’s piece was completely finished on it’s mannequin and it’s maker sat beside it on a stool, her head rested on her bent knees.

“Melancholia?”

She looked up, desolate, eye makeup running, voice scratchy. “You’ve got a model for me?”

“I do.”

She narrowed her eyes, leaned to look around him. “And where is this mysterious magical miracle model?”

“Right here,” Skulduggery said. “Valkyrie is precisely my height in those heels.”

Melancholia opened her mouth, closed it. Looked over at her mannequin and it’s sweeping dark floor length skirt.  Opened and closed her mouth all over again, and then chewed her lip in thought. “We’ll need to pad your hips.”

\--

He had never formally met the girl in charge of styling before, only knowing her by her yellow red and orange pixie cut spiked high to look like flames, but she was chatting away like they were longtime friends.

“I’ve never had to do makeup on a skull before,” she chirped, happily. “I wish we had more time, I have so much I’d like to try -- you think you’ll be pulled in as our benched backup model more in the future?”

He laughed. “Hopefully not.”

“Don’t tell Valcaino,” she said, “but this might actually look better on you than her.”

“Thank you, Amelia.”

It was, he had to admit, a striking look. He looked like Hades had emerged from the Underworld for the met gala. The gown/robe was grey and black, shimmering slightly in the right light. They had decided to opt out on a hat (or a wig, thank god).

Davina’s protest was minimal, as she seemed to realize the potential of this going viral. She had kept her camera crew trained tight on him - even while he was changing.

“People wanna know that you’re _all_ skeleton,” she said, lightly, as he flinched away from the camera lens. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep it tasteful in post.”

“Thanks.”

Abyssinia was having a blast. Getting to wear a big dress (even if it was, indeed, old lady clothes - Abyssinia was dragging the neckline every time Gant left the room) and of course, was absolutely _delighted_ Skulduggery would be joining her on the runway.

Skulduggery just put his full focus on Melancholia, who was calmly doing her last adjustments for her now very thin model, adding small touches here and there.

“Thank you,” she said softly, nudging down the neckline to expose a bit more of his ribcage. “Even though we both know you didn’t do it for me.”

“The show must go on.”

“Is that what you’re going to tell her?” Melancholia said, giving him a tiny smile. She took a step back, pins sticking out the corner of her mouth. “Wow. You really do look decent in this. Please don’t trip.”

“I never trip. I’m far too graceful,” he said, tilting his chin upwards and lifting his hem.

\--

Everyone, predictably, lost their goddamn minds.

Davina had kept it a secret from the judges, and Hansard, Militsa, and Omen hadn’t been in the room when he had been fitted, so they all got excellent gobsmacked reaction shots. Skulduggery didn’t pay attention, though. He was really just focused on putting on foot in front of the other. His boots were flat, thankfully, but skirts were indeed trickier to walk in than he expected. Despite his promise to Melancholia, he did fact nearly eat dirt. (Runway?)

He was glad he didn’t have to worry about his facial expression.

He fidgeted on the runway as they asked all five designers questions, trying not to focus on China’s smirk or Ravel’s boggling eyes. Melancholia won by a landslide, and she and Valkyrie Cain - absent or not - was safe for the week. Militsa was eliminated, and Skulduggery didn’t even wish her goodbye.

He shed the gown, slipped in to just his slacks and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, foregoing a jacket and waistcoat. He slipped past the confessional cameras waiting for him. He had a feeling he was forgetting something, but powered on ahead anyway.

He was only half done with fixing this mess, after all.

\--

Skulduggery made it into Roarhaven’s park around 9:30, a little after sunset. He settled into one of the playground’s swings, and waited.

“Glad to see you’re out and about,” he said, as Valkyrie and a massive German Shepherd rounded the corner.

She gawked at him. “How did you-- why are-- oh god, are you doubling as Project Roarhaven’s hitman?”

“Valkyrie,” he said.

“Who gave the hit? Melancholia or Davina Marr?”

“ _Valkyrie_.”

“What?”

“This stunt today,” he said, standing and striding in just a few steps over to her, “was immature, and irrational. I expected more from you.”

Valkyrie ducked her head, scowled. “You’re the one who told me to quit.”

“I did _not_ ,” he snapped, and then sighed. “You should have _told_ me. You should have sent in your reflection.”

She shifted her weight, tugged up the arm of her hood. “She had work today. What does it matter? I’m eliminated. It’s done. You don’t have to be disappointed in me anymore.”

“You’re not eliminated. You’ll have to come in early tomorrow morning, beg for forgiveness, make up a good excuse, but you’re not eliminated.”

Valkyrie frowned. “No one modeled for Melancholia.”

“That is not strictly true,” he said, “but is besides the point. You can’t just run off like that, people are-- depending on you, expecting something from you.”

“That’s not my fault.”

He groaned, threw his hands up. “Like it or not, this is your job.”

“Not because I _want_ it to be! I’m a pretty tall girl who has no family connections in the mage community. I didn’t have a choice; if I want to afford dog food and therapy I have to stand around and wear god awful Edwardian collars for a paycheck.”

“Then don’t quit just weeks before the end,” Skulduggery replied, baffled. “Look. One more week and either you and Melancholia are off permanently or you have three months break for Angry Birds and crossfit. If you win you’ll never have to step down another catwalk. But stick to it until the end, Valkyrie.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I want you to win,” he said, his voice low. Passionate.

She looked at him, swallowed. “What did you do to save my ass? Who walked for me?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She frowned, took out her phone. He took her wrist. “Look it up later.”

“Why?”

“Because I need to have you still respect me throughout the rest of this conversation.”

Valkyrie’s brow furrowed. He powered on before she could piece it together.

“I’m sorry you don’t like modeling,” he said, “and I’m angry you weren’t even given any other options. But I’m not sorry for keeping you on. You could win this whole thing. You deserve to win this whole thing. And I will do everything in my power to let that happen.”

Valkyrie tucked her hair behind her ear, took a step forward. Her voice was quiet, soft. “What happened to no overtly positive bias?”

“Your constant rule-breaking has infected me,” he said, and Valkyrie grinned. Her smile faltered for a moment, and then her hand reached up for his skull, a finger pointing at his cheek.

He felt something _snap_ right by his eye socket.

“Fuck,” he growled, reeling back and clutching his head. “Ow.”

Valkyrie had a comically horrified look on her face, hands up. He regarded them warily.

“Shit, sorry! I was going for poke, andI think I went closer to _rubber band snap_ ,” she said, wincing at he rubbed his cheek. “I’m so sorry--”

“I’m fine,” he muttered. “Just … surprised.”

“Lemme fix,” she said, hands out again, and he shot her a look that she apparently comprehended perfectly.

“I promise. No more smacking.”

He relented, dropping his hand. She raised hers to replace it, flat against the side of his skull, her thumb skimming his jaw.

Her eyes were squeezed shut with concentration, which was … very cute. After a moment, he felt the pain subside, replaced with something that felt like settling into a hot bath. Skulduggery leaned deeper into her palm without realizing. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this… nice. Her hand was warm, soft. Uncalloused, but still the hands of someone who had her share of scrapes and hardwork.

“I’ve never heard you swear before,” she said, voice soft.

“My apologies.”

“Don’t. I like it. I want you record _Go The Fuck to Sleep_ for me.”

He laughed, felt a vastly inappropriate comment about going to bed forming in the back of his head, and mentally shoved it off a cliff. He was still leaning - melting - into her hand. He should probably stop that.

Instead Valkyrie stepped closer, squinted at him. “You’re wearing makeup.”

 _Shit_. “I am.”

“Did you _model_ for me!?”

He studied a spot just over her shoulder. “I was hoping to avoid this conversation.”

She put a second hand, on the back of his skull this time, locking him into her gaze. “Well, now I have to make your deep sacrifice of wearing a butt ugly _St Clair_ design worth it.”

“It actually wasn’t that bad,” he murmured, and then she was brushing her thumb down his jawline, dark eyelashes fluttering--

The giant dog started barking, startling both of them. She released him, rubbing excess makeup off on her trousers, and then kneeling down to comfort the dog, now growling at Skulduggery. “I will win. Or, at least, try not to actively lose. It’s the least I can do.”

He snorted, slipping his hands into his pockets. “That’s all I ask. I should probably get going before he tries to tear me apart for snacks.”

“She,” Valkyrie said, grinning wide and dimpled. “Her name’s Xena.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Xena.”

Xena just growled.

“Right. Well. I’ll see you tomorrow, Valkyrie.”

She looked up at him, still kneeling and keeping her dog in place. “See you.”

\--

> futuregrandmage: omg
> 
> literallytrash: oh my GOD
> 
> combataccessory: SCREAMING
> 
> omendorkly: that episode killed me. im dead
> 
> mrsbespoke: I’m feeling……… things after Skulduggery’s runway walk.
> 
> literallytrash: same…………………...
> 
> boohoowitch: what was with abyssinia’s blood orange jumpsuit she was wearing before the runway
> 
> neotericwitch: its fucking red
> 
> bubbamoonie: ITS FUCKING RED!!!!!!!
> 
> dregon: so where was Valkyrie anyway?
> 
> bubbamoonie: pregnant with a bone baby
> 
> sparrowprincely: ewwwwww :(
> 
> fyeahroarhaven: bubbamoonie has been banned for making us have to read the words “bone baby”.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WARNED YOU.... I WARNED YOU ALL I'D TAKE FOREVER...
> 
> i call this chapter's wait (and likely the next one's) "this is why you don't have subplots in a crack fic". thanks for the friends who listened to me whine, helped me figure out some stuff, and read early drafts!

In just one week, _Project Roarhaven_ would begin its three months hiatus - three months where he would not see Valkyrie Cain unless he actively sought her out. In those months, he would starve out this crush, good and proper, not let himself think about it. For now, there was nothing to do but to proceed as usual, and keep the grand gestures of substitute modeling and skull touching to a minimum.

The penultimate challenge aired that afternoon, and, to Davina’s delight and Skulduggery’s already deep, deep desire to repress into oblivion, his modeling stint had, indeed, gone instantly viral. Valkyrie had spent that whole day at the studio, making amends. Davina, who hovered at a arms length the whole time had not bought her groveling apologies for a second. Ravel and Ghastly had taken them at face value, even comforted her when she got a little weepy. (Skulduggery appreciated her dedication, but was finding it difficult not to laugh.)

Only China didn’t have a reaction at all, didn’t formally accept her apology, just nodded and left the room. Skulduggery suspected the Valkyrie she liked best was the one renowned as the tasmanian devil of modeling. They had that, at least, in common.

Skulduggery arrived in the late morning the following day - the first day of filming the last episode. Valkyrie greeted him by raising a coffee cup in each hand. “I was going to get you a coffee,” she said, “and then I remembered, oh, right. So I just decided to doublefist these instead.”

“Good God. Do you normally drink that much caffeine?”

“Nnnope. Today will be fun.”

He joined her, sitting on the lip of the runway. She was in a t-shirt and ripped jeans, and while she was, as usual, lovely, the pathetic framework he called a body wasn’t physically aching with the memory of her touching his skull, so that was a marked improvement over the last few days.

She was the only model present - no one else would be in that day until the evening - and so she chose to hide in the back with Skulduggery as they made the big challenge announcement, out of shot of the cameras. It was down to the final four, so it would be something sufficiently flashy and challenging. There would be a guest judge, too. Skulduggery didn’t know who would be - missed out on all those meetings while he was scrambling to get in and out of Melancholia’s gown.

So when Ravel played up the week’s guest judge - multi talented, taking the fashion world by storm, ushering a new generation of talent under his wing, you’ve all met him - quite recently, in fact - the moment he uttered “Solomon Wreath!” Skulduggery let out a involuntary “ _oh, for fuck’s sake.”_

Which was a little too close to the boom mic.

Wreath started to stroll on stage, but Davina waved him away. “Reset! Start over, Erskine.”

Ravel frowned. “I thought that was good.”

“So did I,” she said, glaring cooly at Skulduggery. Valkyrie snickered.

This time, when Wreath entered, Skulduggery kept his snide comments to himself. (Though Valkyrie elbowed him, clearly eager for more.) Wreath gave a Miss America wave, shook Ravel’s hand, and smirked at the contestants like they had a shared conspiracy.

“I guess I’ll be announcing the challenge, then,” he said, letting the head of his cane rest lightly in his hands. “For your last challenge, we think it’s essential to prove you can handle the basics - the framework, from what everything else builds upon. We want something that feels truly you, truly incredible, unique, that has a subtle infusion of magic to it - nothing too flashy. Ghastly is encouraging you to get creative with your fabrics, to weave your own magic into your textiles--”

“Get on with it,” he murmured, low and just for Valkyrie’s ears. She snorted.

“-- and of course something truly sexy. It is easy to take this challenge for granted - you’ll be given five days to create your look - and that it may sound like a lot for how little material you’ll actually be creating.”

There were bobbing heads of understanding. If Skulduggery hadn’t been so focused on Valkyrie’s cute confused head tilt he might have put it together sooner as well.

“... because, of course, your last challenge will be lingerie.”

“Ah, hell,” Valkyrie said, groaning.

 _Ah, hell, indeed,_ Skulduggery thought, feeling something akin to “freezing in terror”.

Everyone applauded, and Valkyrie touched his arm, apparently aware he was zoning out. “I’m going to go beg Melancholia to make my torture minimal. I’ll see you later.”

He nodded absently.

Oh, this was bad. This was colossally  bad. The thing with Valkyrie Cain was bad enough -- but Abyssinia was going to use this to make his life _miserable._ He had used the call out sick excuse already, so he was stuck here, and -- and he didn’t want to miss his last week working with Valkyrie.

Even if he was halfway debating if he could shove marbles into the back of his eye sockets. Subtly. So no one would realize he couldn’t see shit.

“Hello,” Wreath said, hovering over him. (The only time he would ever be noticeably taller.)

“Don’t you have a sweatshop to run?” Skulduggery said. “Scurry back, I’m sure the rats miss you.”

Wreath laughed. “Someone else will be cracking the whip this week, I’m afraid. I’m staying in as a sub mentor.”

Skulduggery bristled. “And did you invite yourself to do that job?”

“No, the fact that you spent the last two weeks _indisposed_ did. Besides, we all figured an extra set of eyes -- well, no, but you know what I mean -- would be handy. You’re hardly familiar with modern lingerie, after all.”

Skulduggery tilted his head back, and wondered if he asked Abyssinia to kill him for old times sake, she’d at least do him the favor of properly disposing of the body.

Probably not.

\--

The work room was quiet except for the _skritch-skritch-skritch_ of pencils and pens on paper. Omen was sitting with his hands on his chin, forehead creased, and Skulduggery leaned on his table.

“Everything all right, Omen?”

Omen just spun his phone over to him - with a series of texts from Never.

_“R U FUCKING SERIOUS?????”_

_“this is bULL. be our first nb model never we wont make u wear anything u wont want 2 never”_

_“RAAAAAAAHFHFH”_

_“I mean ill do it dude i dont want you eliminated but ugh fuccckkKK THIS LOL!!!”_

_Oh,_ Skulduggery thought, feeling a unprecedented moment of _I have been very selfish and close minded, haven’t I._ “I’m so sorry -- I can talk to the producers--”

“No,” Omen shook his head. “No, don’t. I’ll figure it out. I’ll make something he’s comfortable with. I don’t care if I get eliminated for it. It matters more to me to do this right.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “You’re a good designer and a better friend, Omen.”

Omen snorted. “I would have gotten eliminated day one if not for Never. It’s the least I can do.”

“You sell yourself too short.”

Omen tugged at an eyelash. “Thank you, but it’s what anyone would -- or should -- do.”

“People in this industry aren’t known for their selflessness.”

“You are,” Omen said, with a tiny smile.

“One act of self degradation does not make me a good man.”

Omen rested his chin in his palm. “ _Valkyrie_ thinks you’re nice.”

Skulduggery removed a piece of thread from the table. “Maybe relatively to her.”

The designer gave a tiny shake of his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Skulduggery shrugged, settling in to the opposite chair as Omen sketched away. It was nice. Calming. He loved watching people draw - had since he and Ghastly were kids. With everyone either drawing in silence, or listening to music quietly with their headphones, Skulduggery could relax.

He enjoyed a solid two and half minutes of that peace before the door burst open, headed by Gant and followed by a gaggle of producers, Wreath, and Valkyrie taking up the rear.

“I refuse,” Gant barked, pointed a finger at Davina. “It’s indecent. It’s immoral.”

“Then you can drop out,” Davina said, raising an eyebrow. “Which I’m sure your model will be ecstatic about.”

Gant scowled, and Skulduggery tilted his head. How much pull did Abyssinia have on him? Have on the whole crew, even?

“Please let me know,” Davina said, and then yawned. “I think we’d all be overjoyed to take a vacation a week early.”

“I wouldn’t,” Wreath said, sticking his head out from behind a few increasingly nervous producers. “I already picked out all my suits for the week.”

Valkyrie gingerly stepped past the group as they continued to bicker, and made her way to Omen’s table.

“Woof. Looks like Mel and I are not going to be the cause of drama this week, for once.”

“Neither will we,” Omen said, brow furrowing. “Never might actually be disappointed.”

\--

As predicted, the rest of the models coming in the following day was where things started to fall apart. Davina must have been loving it, because Abyssinia had decided if Gant was refusing to participate, she would just create her _own_ outfit. Gant had thrown his scissors at her.

(Skulduggery debated using air magic to help them strike true.)

Omen and Never were silently brainstorming with their heads together, Hansard and his model were talking excitedly about color palettes, and Melancholia … had banished Valkyrie to the break room so she could work in silence.

Skulduggery found Valkyrie lounging on her phone in one of the arm chairs. She didn’t notice him coming in, her tongue sticking slightly out of her mouth as it did when she was focused on something.

“Have you moved on to _Angry Birds Star Wars_ by -- Good God, someone really giffed that?”

Her phone was open to a gif set of him changing in the previous episode - long, lingering shots of his ribcage. (The caption was “#bonedaddy” with a handful of incomprehensible emojis.)

She jolted, leaving her phone resting on her skin with the screen pressed flat against her collarbone. “It just popped up on my feed.”

“Davina insisted,” he said, sighing. “That’s a lot of notes.”

“It is,” Valkyrie said, cautiously.

“You did say I made a good gif.”

“When--” Valkyrie choked, and then she straightened. “Oh. Right. Yes. I remember that. That, that kind of gif.”

She sat up, swiped her water bottle off the counter, chugged it down. He watched her in baffled curiosity.

“Is nudity included in your contract?” she asked, putting her phone face down on the counter.

“It’s not _not_ in my contract.”

“How do you feel about that stuff? Gratuitous nudity on this show, I mean.”

“I’m assuming I didn’t have a full frontal shot in the final cut,” he said, and Valkyrie choked on her water, which turned into a cough, which turned into a laugh.  “It’s a modeling show. It’s a given. I’m more than used to it.”

“But you always panic and fly out of the room if Abyssinia is changing.”

Skulduggery exhaled unnecessarily through his teeth. “That woman is more armored with her clothes off than on. I don’t take the risk.”

She tilted her head curiously. “You do it with me, too.”

Skulduggery suddenly had a very intense staring contest with the door, debating the merits of pretending he had gone spontaneously deaf vs just sprinting out the door at top speed.

“Skulduggery?”

Sure, he would have to deal with Abyssinia trying to get his opinion on thongs, but that was a survivable kind of torture.

“You _should_ see me naked. I’m a catch.”

This forced him to crash back into reality. This was a curveball he needed to redirect, rapidly. “I have. You’ve got a weird back mole.”

Her hands flew to her back, and she glowered at him. “And?”

“Your back and it’s consuming mole was all I saw.”

“Oh.” She chewed her lip. “Well, fine, all my weight goes to my hips, and models are not allowed to boast more than _bug bites_ when it comes to tits, so I guess you didn’t miss out on much.”

A vastly, vastly, _vastly_ inappropriate conversation for a TV show mentor, but at least it was comfortably in the category of “lightly insulting Valkyrie Cain, like her body was not an alter he would eagerly worship at.”

She glanced at her phone, checked the time, sighed. “Your disgust of my back mole is in luck, I’m pretty sure Melancholia is putting me in 18th century drawers and shifts. Are you busy tonight?”

He tilts his head. “Why?”

“I’m teaching Xena how to attack people. I figure that with her already delightfully vicious distrust of you and you being a stack of delicious bones, you’re good target practice.”

Skulduggery laughed.

“So...” she stood up, kicked her bare foot against the leg of her chair. “Seven o’clock at the park?”

“No,” he said, immediately. “No, my apologies, I won’t be able to.”

Valkyrie blinked, waiting for an explanation. When he didn’t give one, she just nodded. “Cool. See you out there.”

She clicked her phone on, and Skulduggery saw a flash of his own rib cage again - but the gif wasn’t moving.

\--

“Skulduggery,” Melancholia said, voice not above a conversational tone even though they were on opposite sides of the room. It was late - everyone else had gone home to finish sketching or take a break. But Melancholia had curled herself into a vulture like position, back hunched, and black lace skirt pooled around her. Skulduggery crossed the room. Being too close to Melancholia put him on edge - she was a powerful necromancer, it was something that always just breathed on the outside of her skin. It felt like a fork tine hitting metal - that whining ring deep in his bones. Like calling to like.

So he kept a careful distance as she removed the sketchbook from her knees and turned it around so it was facing him.

He leaned forward, stunned to get a better look and then took an awkward hop backwards as the rest of his brain caught up.

“That,” Skulduggery said, “was … not what Valkyrie was describing.”

“It’s called a cage bra,” she said, raising a pale eyebrow. “I was going to do a corset but I wanted to do something more original. The judges want me out of my comfort zone, so, fine. It suits her better, anyway.”

Skulduggery tented his hands over the lower half of his jaw. “Hm.”

“The cups are usually removable, but obviously that’s a little much for the runway. But hypothetically, a mass produced version--”

“This really is probably better suited for Wreath’s advice,” Skulduggery said, studying a spot of dust on the tabletop very intensely.

“Nope,” Melancholia said. “You’ll do. I moved the historical inspiration down to her hips -- she’ll be wearing a partial metal hoop skirt.”

Skulduggery snorted. “She’ll hate that.”

“She’ll deal with it,” the designer said, primly. “Any time she starts complaining she just needs someone to inflate her ego and she’s fine. Tell her how beautiful and funny and smart she is. Wreath is good at that.”

Skulduggery fingers tapped on the edge of a chair.

“Oh,” Melancholia said, flipping the page. “And then this is the back.”

The fingers on the chair tightened, and Melancholia smirked.

\--

Ghastly was always the first in the building. He was a morning person - hitting the gym, oatmeal, a couple episodes of _Brooklyn 99_. Skulduggery knew exactly where to find him in his office the following day, and knocked on the open door as he entered.

“You normally clear out your warehouse stocks around this time of year, right?”

Ghastly raised an eyebrow over his paperback novel. “Since when do you get anything off the rack?”

“Not for me,” Skulduggery began, and Ghastly gestured a hand without looking up from his book.

“No.”

“I-”

“No, Skulduggery.”

Skulduggery leaned back against the desk’s edge. “I didn’t even say anything.”

“You want a black jacket, women’s size six. _No_.”

Skulduggery’s teeth scraped against each other as he set his jaw. “Don’t be difficult. You can spare a jacket.”

“Of course I can spare a jacket,” Ghastly scoffed, picking up a yard of silk and laying it out across the table. “I can’t spare a host.”

Skulduggery went to scratch at his non existent hairline - a rare, almost forgotten sign of confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know I can’t do anything about you being head over heels for one of our models, but I’m not going to encourage it,” Ghastly said, large hands flattening the fabric.

“If you’re trying to confirm--”

“I don’t need to confirm what I already know,” Ghastly said. “Look, normally I would encourage you finding someone -- but technically she _works_ for me, Skulduggery, and--”

“That’s not what this is about,” Skulduggery said, rising to his full height.

Ghastly raised an hairless brow at him. “Sure.”

“It isn’t,” Skulduggery said, voice cool and flat, and Ghastly looked at him, surprised at the coldness of his tone. Skulduggery forced his shoulders to relax a bit, make his posture a little less murdery.

“It is not mutual,” he said, “and it is not something I am proud of and I am-- clearly and overwhelmingly aware of how inappropriate it is, but I would be-- I would be offering the same thing to Mr. Darkly or his friend if I had reason to. The fashion industry is all nepotism and favors. You know this.”

Ghastly studied him as his scissors cut smoothly through the fabric, not needing to look. “You’re a much nicer man than you give yourself credit for, you know.”

Skulduggery tilted his head. “And as a man known for his kindness you’re very unwilling to give up a jacket you have no need for.”

“I’m fine with giving up a jacket. Not my best friend’s heart.”

“There’s no danger of that, I assure you.”

“I’ve seen you in the workroom. It’s amazing how you manage to drool without a salivary gland.” He threw a piece of scrap fabric at him that the skeleton barely managed to block with air magic. “Get out of here while I can still bare to be in the same room with your lovesickness.”

“And the jacket?”

Ghastly sighed loudly. Which Skulduggery knew by now was an admission of defeat.

“Close the door behind you,” was all he said.

\--

 

> INSTAGRAM LIVE FEED, from USER: SOLOMONWREATHDESIGN
> 
> REPOSTED BY FYEAHVALDUGGERY.TUMBLR.COM, AUDIO & TEXT DESCRIPTION ADDED
> 
> [text description: a one hour video recorded, mark ruffalo style, probably breaking NDAs, during the production of the penultimate challenge of Project Roarhaven. Solomon Wreath answers questions and chats with fans; conveniently, around the forty five minute mark, Valkyrie and Skulduggery come into frame. the comments section, predictably, explodes. after two solid minutes of just “VALDUGGERY” comments:]
> 
> boohoowitch: mr wreath ZOOM ENHANCE PLEASE DID HE JUST PUT HIS HAND ON HER LEG
> 
> boohoowitch: no hold on thats just the table rip
> 
> bubbamoonie: ahhHHHHHHHHhH
> 
> combataccessory: omg hi bubba long time no see
> 
> bubbamoonie: yeah i got blocked form the group chat for talking about bonef*cking too much
> 
> bubbamoonie: dont block me too solomon im censoring myself
> 
> [“Don’t worry, I’m not blocking anyone,” Wreath says lightly into the camera, smiling.]
> 
> neotericwitch: just cockblocking
> 
> neotericwitch: eyyyyy
> 
> livjaypleasant: EYYYYYYYYYYYY
> 
> [IN OUR OPINION, the next part of the video is TOTALLY PROMPTED BY THIS:
> 
> “Miss Cain,” Wreath calls, turning his head and keeping his phone trained on the two figures in the background - Valkyrie sitting on the table, Skulduggery standing next to her. She is wear a robe, but her crossed legs reveal a flash of skin - possible hint to this week’s challenge?? She just likes running around in the nude? Questions not yet answered!
> 
> “Mm?”
> 
> “You look more gorgeous than I thought possible this week,” Wreath says. “This style of, ah, modeling, suits you well.”
> 
> She snorts. “Of course. I’m smoking.”
> 
> He gestures his hand in a diplomatic agreement. “It is unfortunate not everyone on staff has the experience and eye to really appreciate the design you’re in… Which is why,” he says, winkingly addressing the live stream audience, “I am guesting this week!”
> 
> “Solomon,” Skulduggery’s voice comes, ice cold, “I don’t need experience with this particular type of _apparel_ or eyeballs to tell Miss Cain is resplendent.”
> 
> While the chat ABSOLUTELY EXPLODES, Skulduggery freezes. Valkyrie goes pink.
> 
> Solomon just smiles.
> 
> “Why is your phone out?” Skulduggery asks after a few moments of silence, tilting his head. The live video promptly cuts.]

\--

Valkyrie was wearing loose silk pants - PJ bottoms, probably - and a unzipped hoodie over the underwear. It was frankly unfair how good she looked, and Skulduggery kept alternating spots on the wall behind her to stare at.

“Did you know,” she said, slowly, “that I am weirdly popular in America?”

“Well,” Skulduggery said. “American mages are rude and hate the Irish, and the Irish mages hate you, so, yes, checks out.”

She snorted, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “Ha ha. Yes. They think I’m ‘savage’. A ‘roast queen’.”

“Our own magic, Irish Kardashian.”

“Okay, now you’re just being mean.”

“How else would I match your popularity?”

She laughed. “But no, somehow -- god knows how -- some of my gifs, like, non magic ones - started getting shared on American mortal social media, and then people start digging and found my headshots, and, well. I’m an overnight sensation. With mortals and mages.”

“Isn’t that going to be a problem if your mortal family finds out?”

“Gordon said the same thing. We’re just going to repeat that seven-people-with-your-face factoid.”

Skulduggery gave a little shrug. “Congrats on the fame, then. I hope they’re sending you a fruit basket.”

“Kind of,” she said. “A job offer.”

Skulduggery reeled in shock, and then laughed at himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be-- that was probably overdramatic.”

“I know it is incredibly surprising anyone would willingly offer me a job, yes,” she said, drily. “But, no. For real. The contract is for a several month modeling gig. With an agency that works with mage _and_ mortal companies and designers.”

“That would be huge,” Skulduggery murmured. “You could buy yourself a lot of extra lives on _Angry Birds_.”

“So,” she said, fiddling with the ribbon waistband on her pants. “You think I should take it?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“I mean..” she fiddled with the end of her hair. “I don’t know, in a country with no one I know, that’s a long time…”

“You said they already loved you. And if you and Melancholia don’t make it to the finals, you’ll be set with something to support you until you figure out that whole WWE thing. And if you do make it to the finals, you should be able to figure something out so you’re back in time.”

“So you’re advising me as a mentor to take it.”

“And as a friend,” Skulduggery said, voice soft. “Again. Why not?”

“No fucking reason whatsoever,” Valkyrie mumbled, and stood up, zipping up her jacket. “I’m gonna get some air,” she said, marching out the door, and Skulduggery watched her go, baffled.

-

Bizarrely, Skulduggery barely spoke to her the rest of that week. She was a quiet model, working well with Melancholia and taking actually appropriately timed breaks. Never in the studio if she didn't have to be. It stung, of course, but it was for the best. (Plus, she was snubbing Wreath too, and he was in fact petty enough for that to trump his own feelings of disappointment.)

Ghastly found him the morning of the runway show, thrust a big box at him. It took Skulduggery a moment to recognize the signature style of Ghastly’s fashion line.

“To clarify, I am doing this as a friend. Boss Ghastly is still deeply irritated with you and will pretend this is not happening at all.”

“Thank you,” Skulduggery said. “I think.”

“You’ll need it,” Ghastly said. “I don’t know what you did, but she really really is upset.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“No matter what you think,” Ghastly said, “there’s only one person on this show who’s opinion she gives a shit about.”

He went to finish up final preparations, and left Skulduggery with his churning, baffled thoughts.

\--

It was a weird runway show.

Abyssinia’s attire was simultaneously scandalous and conservative - a horrifying hodge podge of two warring concepts. It would be a clear out, if not for the fact that Hansard’s model had gotten horribly sick just twenty minutes before the show, and therefore did not walk at all. Suspicious, and unfortunate, but no matter how badly Skulduggery wanted Abyssinia off the show, he was not stepping in to model this time.

Omen and Never had pulled through - while the binder and boxer set he modeled wasn’t exactly what any of them imagined for the challenge, all the judges agreed it was superbly made, both in physical design and magic aspects.

The win, however, went to Melancholia. Valkyrie was difficult to look at - like staring at the sun. (Which he could actually do without being hurt, but, well. Metaphor.)

Resplendent and sexy and terrifying and so very much not ever his.

He’d give her the jacket right after the show; and that would be the end of it.

—

Valkyrie burst through the door, shoving it open with her elbow, and immediately set to unbuckling her metal hoop skirt and kicking off her heels. The hoop fell onto the sofa cushions, the shoes beneath it, unearthing a family of dust bunnies.

“Give me your suit jacket, I’m freezing,” she said, shuddering.

“I’ll do you one better,” he said, taking the box off the table. “Congratulations on making the final three.”

She stared at the box - nondescript, black, and then picked it up, shook it. Then shook it at him. “What about your overtly positive bias clause?”

Skulduggery shrugged. “If anyone asked, you realized your true calling as a racoon and found it in a dumpster.”

She rolled her eyes at him and then opened the box. And then reeled.

“A Bespoke jacket? Are you fucking serious?”

“You’re welcome--” he said, but she just dropped the box on the floor and rounded on him.

“You’re an _asshole,_ oh my god, I can’t believe -- I’ve been thinking -- you told me to--” she raised her hands, let out a big _AAAAARGH._

Skulduggery stood very still, watched her pace. She stopped occasionally to open her mouth and then would just groan loudly instead.

“I am slightly confused.”

_“I booked the gig in America.”_

“Congratulations?” he said, glancing back at the box. “Am I preventing you from cutting off all your sleeves in an effort to embrace your new American career?’

She almost laughed, cut herself off and looked angry instead. “It’s for _three months.”_

“You told me.”

“You didn’t _stop me._ ”

“No,” he said, slowly. “Is this about you hating modeling? Because--”

“No!” Valkyrie said, running her hands through her hair. “It’s about you giving me the fucking fashion equivalent of a proposal and I can’t fucking kiss you right now because it has already been made very clear that is no dice on this show and _I will be in America for three months_.”

Skulduggery stared at her. A long silence passed.

The door opened. Amelia, her fire hair sticking up in all directions. “I heard yelling?”

“No you didn’t,” Valkyrie said, pushing the door shut on her.

“Ohhh-kay,” Amelia said, brightly, holding onto the door with surprising strength for such skinny arms. “I’mma just… leave your makeup wipes out here, then.”

They both listened as she hovered at the door and then her footsteps as they walked away, and even as Skulduggery was still processing Valkyrie’s rant -- America, proposal, kiss, America, America, America -- he was thinking he was pretty sure he had the locking and silencing sigils memorized.

“I asked you out,” she groaned, content to continue her rant with Amelia out of earshot, “like, three times this week, and you kept saying no and I don’t even have your phone number because I could never think of a way to ask for it without sounding weird because you _are the king of mixed signals, my dude,_ especially with the fucking proposal jacket after all that and, and-- oh god, you are not even talking, oh god _wait was this legitimately just a jacket, fuck._ ”

She covered her face with her hands, grimacing and face bright red, and Skulduggery gently wrenched her wrists away from her face, so he could meet her eyes.

“It was not just a jacket.”

She fixed him with her dark eyes. “Proposal jacket?”

He cleared his throat. “In ... In a way. You’re putting words into my mouth.”

She studied his jaw. “You don’t have a mouth.”

“Which hasn’t stopped you from threatening to kiss me.”

She snorted, and then swallowed hard, wrist still caught between his index finger and thumb. “Is it a threat to you?”

“Not really,” he said, tilting his skull towards her, and then glancing up back up at the still very much unlocked door just as he heard footsteps approaching.

They both froze, incriminatingly close as the door opened a crack and then slammed shut again. “No, no one’s here,” came Ghastly’s voice through the other side, and then the heeled footsteps clacked away. “And no one should be, ten minutes from now,” Ghastly murmured. Another set of footsteps followed.

Valkyrie exhaled, and Skulduggery could feel it on his teeth. “Unfortunately I’m all too familiar with the sounds of Davina’s devil heels on linoleum.”

“A harbinger of doom if any.”

Valkyrie slipped out of his grasp - an apt metaphor - and that was that, then. He could feel his mind rationalizing it even as everything surrounded his bones - his memory of skin? His aura? His magic? Ached for her.

She opened the door carefully, picking up the abandoned makeup wipes off the floor. Skulduggery tilted his head as she put them carefully within reach on the couch arm next to him, and then --

A hand flat on his ribcage, pushing him down onto the couch, one of Valkyrie’s knees between his and the other angled for careful leverage as she literally shoved him into the couch cushions and kissed the living daylights out of him.

(Or whatever counted as “living daylights” when you were dead.)

The fact he didn’t have a mouth did not seem to deter Valkyrie Cain in the slightest, and he very soon realized this was something she had clearly had an attack plan for. That she, unbelievably, might have been thinking of him as much as he thought about her. There were light fingertips on his jaw, adjusting and plucking at his aura that drew out a very much involuntary moan -- and good god, did that mean the previous two attempts were _test runs?_

His hands on memory found their way to her waist and hip -- and then jolted back upwards when he remembered the lack of fabric covering either. (They were very quickly put back in place.)

He felt like a fool - or like a teenager, curled up and pressed against her, desperate to close every inch of space between them. He could feel a blush building on his skin, hot and fire engine red along his ears - only hidden by the fact he, thank God, no longer had the skin for it.

Valkyrie’s lip got caught between his teeth, an awkward clash, and Skulduggery pulled back, laughing and apologizing at the same time as she poked out at it.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Valkyrie --”

She shook her head, looking severe, and then burst out laughing herself. “Wow. We’re messes.”

“Absolutely,” he said, hand winding through her hair.

“No,” she said. “Like, legit. A mess.” She leaned over, picked up the makeup wipes, and then scrubbed at lipstick stains on his teeth and jaws as he sat patiently and still before her. (Maybe his hands wandered a bit.)

She scrubbed at her face with a fresh wipe, and then ran a hand through her hair. “Good as it’s gonna get,” she said, clambering off him, and the aching feeling returned. She picked up the jacket box, tucked it under her arm. “To be continued,” she said, very seriously.

“To be continued,” he echoed back. She swallowed, nodded, and then slipped out the door.

For three months.

\--

 

> omendorkly: this hiatus is gonna killlll meeeee ;o;
> 
> irishsubway: Anyone mind helping me with a lil Valduggery project while we wait? :) Like, talk about how much you love the ship in a video or tweet/comment and I’m gonna edit it into something special!
> 
> warlockcandle: MY TIME HAS COME


End file.
